


The Book of Days

by Altariel



Series: The Rangers of Ithilien [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:28:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22082614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altariel/pseuds/Altariel
Summary: "The rupture was less grievous than he thought." Faramir's journals, across the years.
Series: The Rangers of Ithilien [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/10988
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	1. The Book of Days

**The Book of Days**

_Ithilien, 3013 TA_

The day started badly, and it was only the good fortune that their opponents were slow-witted brutes who mistimed their assault that prevented them from being entirely annihilated.

“That,” muttered Mablung, as the last orc fell, “was far too close for my liking.” And this was certainly true for Celeg and Angrost, who would never walk the green vales of Ithilien again. Once they had patched up the living, and passed around the water, and rested a while, they set to work on the graves. Shallow by necessity; deep enough that no passing beast would disturb them.

When they had dug enough, they gently laid the bodies to rest, forever looking westwards, and covered them. Faramir, as if from a distance, heard himself yet again say the words: _In sorrow we go but not in despair. Behold the Gift of Men! We are not bound forever to the circles of this world, and beyond is more than memory…_

The day was wearing on. They found a stream, and washed, and then made for cover. Mablung walked quietly at his side. As they went along, he felt himself move from sharp grief to dull anger to a kind of numb acquiescence. The light fell and Mablung’s hand came to rest unseen upon his back.

They camped in an old cottage, a ruin, although the roof had, by some miracle, not yet been wholly pulled down by the vile creatures that roamed too freely through this land. _Give it time_ , he thought. They laid out food and then, somehow, found the strength and the will to observe the standing silence. It was getting dark. He watched as the light that remained faded further.

They sat and ate. Around him, soft conversation began. Memories of their friends. Soon they dug deep enough to find quiet laughter. Reaching for his pack, he pulled out his journal, but, looking down at the page, he found the task of finding words suddenly beyond his powers. He noted down the names, and the location of their graves, and then, slowly, drew a line across the page. Mablung, watching him, said, “That was a short entry.”

“Well,” he said, putting the book away, “it’s been a long day.”

***

_Minas Tirith, 6 FA_

The arrival of the children rekindled the habit. As if there was not enough to do already… Still, he took a few minutes at the end of each day to jot down what each of them had done that had delighted him, astonished him, amazed him. As they got bigger, he began to tuck within the pages the small gifts they bestowed on him: drawings of their family; messages of love. The pages filled rapidly, chaotically – he never had quite enough time for any of the tasks he set himself – but what mattered, he thought, was to capture something of this present so that when he was gone and they opened these books they would see – if they did not know already – how deeply, how profoundly, he had loved them all.

After a while, this new beginning sent him back to his last attempt to keep a journal. He found the books locked in a chest in his old rooms. The first one had been a gift from his brother for his eleventh birthday. He recalled the thrill of opening it, they glorious smell of the pages, the careful effort he had put into composing the first lines, which were of course, ponderous, awkward, a child’s idea of seriousness.

Year after year the volumes stacked up. He leafed through them, watching this boy as if from a distance. Watched his enthusiasms and passions; his worries and troubles. Watched the bubbling of creativity, around his fourteenth year, the ideas and images and sentences that might, in another time, have formed the basis for odes, epics, narratives, lays. A whole body of work. He watched their gradual disappearance from the pages. Watched, too, his own slow self-effacement, until, by the end, the entries had become nothing more than a record of company actions and losses.

No wonder he had abandoned writing. A journal was a promise to the future; this was emptied of hope. The man writing these pages did not believe they would ever be read. This whole period, he recalled now, had been a steady relinquishment of extraneous tasks. Long before the battle of the bridge, he had taken to rereading only the same two books. Mardil’s account of the death of Eärnur; a book of poetry that had belonged to his mother. Time had been desperately short, of course, but this was more, he saw now: a conservation of energy, the marshalling of everything he had to the task at hand. There had been, by the end, nothing in reserve.

The last entry recorded the burial of two of his men. After that, the pages were blank. He flipped through them – and then, to his surprise, saw that one more page had been written upon. His hand, although he did not recall putting down these words.

_25 th March 3019: By the grace of the Valar and the labours and sacrifice of many I have lived to see our victory— the Downfall of the Enemy and the Return of the King— _

And then:

_27 th March 3019: Took my oath as Steward. Éowyn came. I continue to hope. _

He saw now, as perhaps he could never have seen before, that the rupture was less grievous than he thought. There was a straight line here between what had gone before and what was there now. At the end of the page, he wrote the date, to remind him – should he ever forget again – of the truth: this was the same man; unbroken, whole, restored.

* * *

_Altariel, 2 nd January 2020_


	2. March Warden

**March Warden**

_Ithilien, 3013 TA_

They’d had more than their share of losses this summer, thought Mablung, but to lose two good men in a single skirmish was beyond even this current bout of bad luck. The Captain, you could see, was punishing himself, but then the Captain punished himself for their successes.

They buried them, blessed them, and went on their way. As they walked, Mablung watched the weight of a wearying world settle upon the Captain’s shoulders. There were many things Mablung hated about this war, but watching the years chip away at a man like this – well, that alone would keep him in this fight. That alone was enough to make you loathe the Enemy.

The light faded enough so that he could put his hand upon the Captain’s back without the others seeing. Move him on; keep him going. He thought, _I’ll get you through this if I have to drag you_.

* * *

_Ithilien, 17 FA_

“Of course,” said Elboron, all of a sudden, as they walked beneath the trees, “you couldn’t leave grave markers, could you?”

Mablung, looking over his shoulder at the young lord, said, “What’s that?”

“The graves. I’ve often wondered, walking round Ithilien, why I never saw any graves. But you couldn’t exactly leave markers, could you?” Seeing his captain’s face, the lad flushed. “Sorry, sir. I don’t mean to offend—”

“No, lad, you’re right.”

They walked on. Mablung liked the young lord. In fact, he liked him very much. Hard-working, a fine lieutenant, with his father’s serious dedication, and his mother’s swift grace. A thinker, too, in his own way; not the quicksilver wit of his younger sister, aye, but someone who pondered. Elboron weighed all the options, and then made sound decisions. That would have been tough for him, in time of war, when speed was key, but Lord Cormallen was not living in a time of war.

What, Mablung wondered, did you share with these young men of the horrors? Did you tell them all, as warning? Or did you put yourself between them and the worst? Not far from here, in the early days of his father’s captaincy, they had buried one of the old hands. Mablung had come back this way a year or two later; found the burnt gnawed bones scattered around. Why would he tell the son this? He had never told his father.

“No, we didn’t leave markers,” he said. “We didn’t want them disturbed.”

A flicker of revulsion passed over the young man’s face. No, he didn’t need to say more. The lad knew enough already. He said, uncertainly, “We could mark them now? Honour them now in some way…?”

 _Valar bless you,_ thought Mablung. _But there are too many._

“Let them rest, lad. Let them rest in peace.”

* * *

_Altariel, 4 th January 2020_


End file.
